


False Idols & Cellophane

by rachelrose



Category: Dexter (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Investigations, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Florida? Really, John?”</p><p>“You know, I wouldn't even be suggesting it if it wasn't at least a seven and a half.”</p><p>Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Give it here,” he grumbles, plopping down on his chair across from John and gesturing for John's laptop. “I'll be the judge of that,” he says. John now knows better than to argue with the eccentric detective.</p><p>After several minutes of silence, Sherlock puts the laptop down and sighs, steepling his hands under his chin. John asks, “Well?”</p><p>“Pack your bags, John. We're making a visit to Miami Metro PD.”</p><p>John doesn't even try to conceal his grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Idols & Cellophane

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a crossover for these two fandoms.

_“Florida?_ Really, John?”

“You know, I wouldn't even be suggesting it if it wasn't at least a seven and a half.”

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Give it here,” he grumbles, plopping down on his chair across from John and gesturing for John's laptop. “I'll be the judge of that,” he says. John now knows better than to argue with the eccentric detective.

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock puts the laptop down and sighs, steepling his hands under his chin. John asks, “Well?”

“Pack your bags, John. We're making a visit to Miami Metro PD.”

John doesn't even try to conceal his grin.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes – we're so honored to have you and your partner here to help us on this case.” John sighs. “Captain Maria LaGuerta of Miami Metro Homicide.” She holds out a hand to shake. _Power complex. Can't hold down a steady relationship. Not well liked as a superior. Determined, but usually wrong. Control freak._ John has told him to keep his deductions to himself for the duration of the trip, save for the ones that will help with the case. He reluctantly shakes her hand.

The meeting room is full of officers and pathologists and photographers and other morons with badges. This is what Sherlock thinks, at least – until the hispanic Captain lady issues both him and John their own temporary badges. Never before has Sherlock had his _own_ badge – he usually just has to nick them off of officers from the Yard.

He and John, plus LaGuerta and a few other relatively “important” people, stand at the front of the room. LaGuerta speaks. “I'd like to introduce two experts that have come to us all the way from London to be here today – Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” There is applause.

“ _Experts?”_ John whispers. The pair giggles.

“Mr. Holmes is somewhat of a _celebrity_ back home,” she says, and Sherlock scoffs openly. A few people laugh, but LaGuerta pushes on. “And again, we're so pleased to have you here. Sergeant Batista?”

“Let's get started then.” The man steps up to the podium, papers in hand, and clears his throat. The fluorescent lighting in the room is turned off, and the blinds are closed. “The Bay Harbor Butcher.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the dramatic use of PowerPoint. “His MO, we're all familiar with: he strips his victims down and kills them, chops the bodies up into precise, methodical pieces, then loads them into black trash bags and dumps them into the middle of the bay. Doesn't leave behind any traceable evidence. And the kicker: of the bodies identified, the victims are all serious criminals.”

“They should just let him be, for god's sake. He's doing the justice system a favor by tying up all of their loose ends,” Sherlock says to John after the meeting.

“Usually, I'd say you're being ridiculous, but right now – for some ungodly reason – I'm agreeing with you.” Sherlock smirks. “And I know you don't care much about finances, but solving this case pays our rent for a year.”

“Right. Of course, John.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So, uh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson – huge fan,” says the small, enthusiastic Asian man as he aggressively shakes both Sherlock's and John's hands. “Vince Masuka, forensic analyst.” _Obsessed with wild sexual fantasies. Average lover. Not excited by “vanilla” sex, which is the reason for the frequent indulgences in fantasy._ “A few of us are going out for drinks tonight, and we'd love to have you.” _Paying customer on many porn sites. Poor verbal filter. Loyal. Fan of innuendo and collared short-sleeve button-ups._

“We'll be there,” says John. Sherlock shoots daggers at him, to which John pleasantly responds, “What, like we've got anything better on?”

 

* * *

 

 

“That your friend over there?” The woman points to where John is dancing (if you could even call it that) at the center of the dance floor surrounded by a crowd of people cheering him on.

“Mmm, yes. Apparently, John isn't very good at holding his tequila.”

“And you?”

“Not really my preferred drink.” A glass of whiskey sits in front of him. As per usual, Sherlock gives the woman a quick once-over, but she interrupts before he has the chance to list his deductions.

She holds out a hand. “Lieutenant Debra Morgan. Pleasure to finally meet you.” _High alcohol tolerance. Bitter personality._ Sherlock makes eye contact before returning the gesture. He looks at her, wondering, _why is she talking to me? Doesn't she know what happens to those who try to engage with me?_ She clears her throat. “Look, from where I was standing, you looked like you were pouting. And that you weren't nearly drunk enough.”

Surprisingly, he chuckles, allowing himself this momentary indulgence in relaxation. As she orders the two of them another few rounds, Sherlock finds that he doesn't really mind her snarky, profane personality. He hears her say things like “clusterfuck” and “ass-wagon” and “sweet Mary, mother of fuck” and it's funnier and funnier the more pissed he gets. When she says, “You're alright, Holmes,” Sherlock only has the sense to grin.

 

* * *

 

 

After a few short days of investigation, Sherlock asks to do a briefing in front of the entire Miami Metro homicide department – after all, what is Genius without an audience? Here, he plans to spew his deductions, and the detectives can do with it all as they will. Minimal involvement, no more shitty Miami hotels – it's ideal, really.

Sherlock and John stand in the front of the room, disregarding the projector and the podium for a more “casual” approach to their presentation. John begins.

“I'd like to preface Mr. Holmes' speech by issuing a public apology in advance for anyone who may feel that they've been attacked in the process of –“

Sherlock interrupts, and the room erupts in laughter. “Oh, shut up, John. Have a seat, won't you?” John takes his seat in the front row. _I tried to warn them,_ John thinks. _I'll be nothing but a blameless spectator when shit hits the fan._ He presses the record button on his iPhone. _This should be entertaining._

“For the sake of everyone in this room, and because this is likely going to be one of the most heavily-documented cases I work on in my career, I have decided to break down my evidence piece by piece, which I am _more than capable of,_ regardless of what John's blog might tell you otherwise.” The group laughs. “I'm never given this opportunity – to speak singularly in front of a group of people who are listening. More often than not, I speak quickly in regular conversation, skipping some of the middle parts to get to the conclusion.” There's more laughing, and he turns his attention to John. “Maybe Lestrade will bloody _learn something_ from this – how the supposed “fast-paced” Americans behave more respectfully than his imbeciles at the Yard.” John laughs, nodding in agreement.

Sherlock begins. “First and foremost, I'd like to do away with the stupid name, _'the Bay Harbor Butcher.'”_ He pauses for dramatic effect. “A serial killer of his... _proclivities,_ of his talents, is to be respected and feared – not to be made a spectacle of in the media. We cannot stop others from using this name, I realize, but removing all trace of it from the investigation is a good start.

“Now, I recognize a look of scepticism in some of your faces – the smartest of you lot are questioning my use of masculine pronouns. I shall explain myself; it's as good a place to start as any. Serial killers and psychopaths come in all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life – this much we all know to be true. However, if we take a look at the killer's victims, we can deduce that this person would have to be tall, well-built, and strong enough to handle men of impressive size. Now, these victims are likely to fight back – to go down swinging, if you will. So, given this information, we can conclude that the killer must use some form of tranquilliser to hinder his victims. Even though some say that poison is a woman's weapon, the next steps completely derail any possibility of the killer being a woman. The killer would have to be able to maneuver an unconscious body – a _large_ unconscious body – through several steps of transport and sterilisation. Unless the woman we're looking for is trained in several divisions of martial arts, spends at least two hours a day on cardio and weight lifting to maintain the required amount of muscle, and is roughly 5'10, we're looking for a man. A woman like that would stick out in a crowd, now, wouldn't she? Serial killers of this sort are meant to fit in seamlessly.

“And as all serial killers require their 'trophies,' our killer _must_ have his – which could be articles of clothing or blood. Clothing is unlikely, however, because he strips them down _before_ he kills them. No, very few things stay with the body until the very end: blood, flesh, hair, and body parts. Only one of these four things cannot be accounted for in full in any one of the victims' remains: blood. The trophies, therefore, involve blood. So, if we can find the trophies, we've found the killer.

“Now, you see, our man is a master of disguise – he learned social customs with ease at a very young age, and now wields his persona as a camouflage. We're looking for someone who has a perfect outer shell. But who, pray tell, might also have an associated obsession with blood? A phlebotomist? No, that's far too easy. The killer would have to have access to the police record database to select his victims. This leaves very few suspects. Namely, Forensics.” The room is dead silent.

“So as long as no one's called out sick today, it is safe to say that I'm staring the killer right in the face.”

Detective Morgan – the woman from the bar – raises her hand to interrupt. “Masuka is out today. Hangover – go figure.”

Sherlock has the nerve to actually _laugh,_ causing many people to look disturbed. “Oh, Vince Masuka. Serial killers come in all shapes and sizes, but our killer has taken down countless individuals regardless of their size or gender. A misogynist like Masuka would never take _women_ for his victims. And have you noticed the _size_ of him?” Several of the officers nod their heads, while most of the others laugh at the poor man's expense. “But thank you, Lieutenant...” he trails off, waiting for her to reply.

“Don't you fucking _dare_ pretend you don't remember my name, you pretentious fuck.” It's positively seething, but she grins while she speaks – _ah, yes, a joke then. Sarcasm._

“Pardon me, you'll have to remind me again. Later, of course.” He wonders if his blatant flirting is as obviously false as he intends it to be.

“In your dreams, _Detective._ ” _If he won't bother to use my name,_ Deb thinks, _then why should I bother to use his?_ The room resounds with _“oohs,”_ sounding much like a grade school classroom when a student is called to the main office in the middle of class.

He laughs, purely out of good sportsmanship. _Well-played, Debra Morgan. Well-played._ He clears his throat to regain the attention of the room. “Right, okay – questions, then?”

“... a-are we supposed to pretend that you didn't just say that there's a serial killer in this room?” The voice comes from some random person in the crowd.

“Oh, unless you're guilty of cold-blooded murder – convicted or otherwise – you're almost 100% safe as you are in this room,” he assures.

LaGuerta stands up, obviously unsettled. “But how can we know that for _sure_?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “Because this man has killed this way for _at least_ two whole decades. He's precise and follows strict guidelines to keep _himself_ in check. Killing one of you, killing an innocent, would break the very _foundation_ of his rules – the rules that allow him to believe that he's blameless or a hero. So why would he bother to break his rules for one of _you_ lot? He's deluded. By killing killers, he feels like his psychopathic nature is justified – that he's not hurting anyone, really. He's just cleaning up the shit that seeps out of the American justice system.” Sherlock is seething. “In his eyes, you ought to thank him. After all, he's just acting as your bloody custodial staff.”

Lieutenant Morgan stands up to speak. “Why are you _defending_ him? While we're all absolutely fucking _revolted_ by this psychopath, you're practically _worshipping_ him.”

“You know, Lieutenant – I do see where you're coming from, from a religious standpoint. But my words don't have to mean that I'm 'worshipping' anyone. Most of you likely don't know this, as you are confined in your little American Christian bubbles of ignorance...” John shoots him a glare. “But I'd like to refer back to traditional Buddhism: one of the many teachings says that gods do exist, but it is imperative to avoid them at all costs. The gods are on a higher plane, treating people as puppets and causing nothing but tragedy. You can acknowledge their existence without 'worshipping' them.

“I'm merely acknowledging the fact that what we are up against here is a great, powerful shadow. A worthy opponent. And that, dear friends, is absolutely undeniable.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh _hell,_ I'm going mad sitting around in this bloody hotel room. This is so _boring_!” Sherlock is pouting, pitching a fit – as usual. “I'm going for a walk, John.”

“Don't forget your gun,” John says.

“They didn't give me a.... _oh._ You are _good,_ John.” Sherlock takes the gun that John is holding out to him. He must've nicked it from the station. Easy-peasy. This is America, as it were. _God bless the NRA._

The gun doesn't help him, though – not when he's attacked from behind. He's hardly even touched before everything goes dark.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock comes to, he is uncomfortably sweaty as he lay naked, wrapped in cellophane. _Oh this is so exciting!_ The room around him is exactly as he pictured it would be: sterile. Of course, Sherlock is not afraid for his life in this moment: no, he’s not the killer’s type. He’s just excited to be on the man’s radar at all. Sherlock initiates the conversation.

“ _Dexter Morgan_ ,” he sing-songs. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I‘d offer my hand to shake, but well –“

“Stop it. Stop this.” He approaches Sherlock’s prone form suddenly, bringing a knife to the bare skin of his neck. “You have compromised my life’s work. Why shouldn’t I just kill you right now?”

“Tell me, Mr Morgan – what trophies do you keep? Was I correct about the blood?”

“You know, I _could_ kill you. I know you think that you’re safe because you’re innocent, but keeping my hobby a secret is just as important as making sure that my victims are guilty.”

“Are you talking about your list of rules? I was thinking that you’d have to have rules, to keep yourself safe. You were there, at the meeting – I must know, did I get anything wrong? There’s always something.”

Dexter smirks. “I have no misconceptions about what kind of man I am – I don’t have a hero complex. Maybe a bit of a god complex, but I know what I am. What kind of _monster_ I am.”

“It’s strange, don’t you think?” Sherlock asks quizzically. “You have an awful lot of emotions for a murderous psychopath.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not continue this. Depends on the feedback.


End file.
